Brace Yourself
by ThreeJays
Summary: **SPOILERS INCLUDE PROMO FOR 2x18** Maybe he's not good enough and maybe she's not brave enough, but that's not enough - not anymore.  D/E Pairing. Warning: Character Death - not main Trio.   Rating for Language in later chapters
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: Don't own a thing. Trust me if I had *any* control Season 2 would be a very different place.**

_A/N: Okay, so this is uh…something. I meant to continue The Difference. And then I started something else. And then I saw the promo for 2x18 (where Elena slaps Damon) and went bat crap crazy because I wrote a four part fic that twisted that two second scene into something there's no chance in hell of it being. It took me all day. Right. I have issues._

_At any rate, I'll be editing and posting every other day. This is probably complete crap, but I'm sticking it up here in the hopes that I am not the only completely obsessed person desperately craving something Damon/Elena centric set right where we are in Season 2. I warn you, this is dark. There is a major (not main trio) death. This is also not gushy/feely Damon, not at first. I think there's a lot of conflict and fear in him – I think he fights his heart for Elena every minute. So, that's where I write him from. And it's probably pushes the limits of what these characters would do as written on the show, because as written on the show, Elena wouldn't take a phone call from a salesman without making sure he knows she loves Stefan like whoa so much. But I need something more than that - ergo this fic. :-)_

_And now this is officially the longest and most bitter author's note ever. Shutting up. :P Please review if this is of any interest at all. Your comments are email gold to me – sunshine in my inbox. :-) That said this really might be one best left for the old recycle bin._

**((Elena's POV – Chapter One))**

Damon.

As soon as I see him, my whole body goes tight, and not in the usual way. I feel sick and cold, like I've been sucked into a vacuum. Something is wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. I don't know how I know this, but I do.

"No," I say as I hear his hand twist on the doorknob. He isn't knocking because civility doesn't matter. He's not here for a social call.

"No," I say again, twisting in this ridiculous dress, feeling these stupid peace-sign earrings bang against my face. Cold, smooth metal against my flesh to match the icy fear slithering up my spine.

He opens the door and my tears spring up instantly. Because I know it's bad. Damon's face reads like a book to me. I know what it means when his eyes are this soft while his face is so hard.

It means I was right.

Something is wrong. Beyond wrong.

He takes a single step towards me and I shake my head, my tongue too thick and numb to speak, my feet too heavy to move. He takes another step and I feel a burst of anger towards him. Hatred, almost. I strike out like a crazy person, my hand cracking against his cheek. As if that will stop him or undo whatever has already been done.

But Damon knows my face, too, so my little outburst doesn't phase him. He meets my gaze again and I feel my ribs shudder at his darkening expression.

"You need to brace yourself for what I'm about to say," he says.

I shake my head again, but the tears come anyway, slicking my cheeks and blurring my vision. No. No, I don't want to hear this. He tells me anyway.

"Bonnie is gone."

My world shrinks in around me. Everything is small and tight and condensed and there is no feeling. None at all. My thoughts come in fragments, tiny jagged pieces.

Gone.

Bonnie.

Bonnie is gone.

Bonnie is dead.

Everything rushes back in a sickening roar and I suck in a breath that makes my stomach churn, closing my eyes against the light. Against Damon's face. Against the truth.

I hear a sound, a horrible strangled keening. It sounds like me, but it can't be me. It is a sound that wild animals make.

My hands reach blindly, searching for a wall and finding Damon's body instead. Something hot swirls through me, flushing my cheeks and curling my fingers into fists.

"You!" I scream, rage pouring out of me like water. My punches rain down on his chest, nails clawing at his neck as I choke out a litany of nonsense and blame. "If you'd listened—if you'd—you could have stopped her! This can't—this is your fault! I hate you! God—Bonnie…"

I hit him even after my voice fails me, words disintegrating into sobs. I feel bruised and raw and horrible. The world is not right. It will never be right, so I kick and scream and thrash like a cornered dog.

And he lets me.

I explode until a spot of crimson forms on Damon's bottom lip, courtesy of my knuckles, I'm sure. It stops me, this drop of blood. I take a breath, held captive by the indescribable blue of his eyes.

He licks his lips and the blood is gone. My violence erased.

I am reduced to soft, low sobs, the kind that come from a place too deep to think about. I lean, or maybe fall, against him, and feel his body brace. Stiff and tensed beneath me.

And then his arms are around me and we are sliding down to the floor. He makes soft, soothing noises I never dreamed him capable of. I think of Rose dying in his arms and me falling to pieces now and I wonder where this part of him hides. Where does he keep this tender voice and these feathery touches.

I'm gathered on his lap like a pet, quivering and crying and staining his alabaster skin with my make-up. His neck is so warm against my cheek. Every breath draws him into me, the smell of soap and fire and something coppery that I know better than to define.

And I curl my hands into his jacket and press my cheek hard against him. I don't care that I shouldn't. I don't care that it's Damon. I mold myself to him because I need something solid. I need an anchor or I will wash away.

When I open my eyes, I see the damp black of Damon's shirt beneath my chin and then a smattering of glass beside me. I broke something.

Good.

Now I am not the only shattered thing in this house.

"I'll make tea," Damon says abruptly, and when he moves, I cling to him harder, making a soft noise of protest.

"Tea," he says again, picking me up quickly and depositing me neatly on the couch. I look at him, asking '_Why?' _with my eyes since I still can't find my voice.

He looks tortured, his cheeks flushed and hands twitching at his sides. But his eyes flash to the window and I get it.

Stefan.

A car door wrenches open and then closed and Damon blurs away from me, disappearing into the kitchen. A supernaturally fast rush of footsteps on the steps and then Stefan, warm and solid, is in the living room, crouched before me.

Pulling me in.

"I'm so sorry, Elena," he says, stroking my hair, making all the right sounds, doing all the right things. I wrap my arms around him, but I am softer. I don't squeeze him as hard. I don't tear at his shirt or sob against his neck.

I tell myself it's because Stefan calms me down.

I never was a very good liar.


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Don't own a thing. Trust me if I had *any* control Season 2 would be a very different place.

**_A/N: Thank you a thousand times over. Every word you leave puts gas in my tank. I'd write this stuff either way, because I'm absolutely that pathetic and obsessed. But posting it? Yeah, no way would that happen if you weren't so generous as to leave these reviews. So thank you. Loads._**

**_I tried desperately to reply to your many generous comments, but has been wonky all day and I can't sign in! It took me forever to even get in to get this posted._**

**_THIS CHAPTER IS DAMON POV. And yes, it jumps forward a few days. He is a mess. And swearing like a sailor. Consider that your warning. This bit is gritty – probably not for the faint of heart in some places. Sorry for that – I know it's dark, but I feel very strongly that this is right – it just didn't work any other way. And it does get happier eventually._**

_**So….maybe….please….leave a review? *bats eyes***_

((CHAPTER 2 - DAMON POV))

Ding dong, the dick is dead.

A little witchy woo-woo from the grave (I could have told him those Bennett ladies were a vengeful bunch) and just like that, the all-powerful Satan Klaus was just another pretty boy with an accent.

A pretty _human_ boy.

Of course the mojo didn't kick in until Stefan lost a finger, I broke half my ribs, and Elena had practically bled out on the stone altar. So now I've got the fucker's heart in my hand and I _still_ can't relax.

Elena.

My eyes cross to the altar, to the pool of blood streaking the stone beneath her neck. She is not moving. She looks—

_No. No, you don't even fucking go there, Salvatore, because that doesn't happen. That's **not** happening._

If I move closer, I'll be able to hear if she's breathing. I'll know for sure. So, I don't move. I stay right where I am, watching Caroline cry and Stefan pour his blood down Elena's throat. My jaw is tight and I've got this awful wringing feeling grabbing me by the gut in waves. It's almost familiar, this feeling.

Wait.

I think I'm gonna—

I barely have enough time to drop Klaus's heart before I'm yakking up my guts in the bushes.

How's that for heroic? Saint Stefan is urging her back with whispered 'I-love-you's' while I'm on hands and knees in the dirt puking for the first time in a hundred and fifty years.

Fucked up does not even _begin_ to describe this night.

Or, hell, the last _year_ of my life.

I can't stop retching until I hear her. One breath. Raspy, but strong. My misery ends and I wipe my watering eyes with the back of my hand and there she is. Blinking. Breathing. Alive.

I let out a shuddering breath and feel my whole body uncoil. "Close," I say to no one. "Too damn close."

Stefan helps Elena up. I see her sinking against his shoulder, her little hand pressed weakly to his back. All I can think about is the way she curled into me on the floor of her hallway, her cheek soft and wet against my neck and Jesus H. Christ, I can't watch this. Not now.

I need some blood, booze, and space.

So I run.

Now, what I should do is find some sweet little twenty-something. Maybe blonde, definitely drunk, preferably AB positive. Six months ago, someone like that might have changed my religion.

But it's been a hell of a six months, so I run home just like Charlie with his golden ticket. I shuck my clothes (shoes and all) in the garage trash can. I've got two bags of blood, a bottle of scotch, and my shower on full blast before the rest of our ragged crew even pulls into the driveway.

I down the blood and the scotch before I even bother getting in the water. When I finally do get under the spray, I probably spend an hour scrubbing, letting the shower beat down until my ribs don't ache and my fingers are getting pruney. It doesn't matter. I can't stay in here forever. These people are like daytime TV. The talk will go on for days, _weeks_ even, and eventually I will have to make an appearance.

_Unless..._

I shut off the water and towel my hair, giving my closet a long, appraising look. An empty leather bag duffel bag beckons from the shelf. A bag that's seen Bombay, Milan, Shanghai. A bag that hasn't sat on a shelf this long in decades. I think about it for all of ten seconds before I'm packing.

Fuck it. Fuck this town, this house, my brother with his eyebrows of doom...fuck it all.

Three shirts and a couple pairs of pants go into the bag followed by a rubber-banded wad of emergency cash. Then I'm zipping it closed and pulling on a pair of jeans and feeling about ten thousand pounds lighter. I'm looking for a shirt when I hear someone in the upstairs hallway.

Probably Stefan. Come to offer me the hem of his garment to heal my wounds.

But the footsteps are too light, too quick for Stefan. Which of course means it's _her_. Naturally, I couldn't leave without one last twist of that particular doe-eyed knife in my gut.

My bedroom door opens. No knock. Interesting. She closes the door softly behind her and I can see that she's showered. She's got her still damp hair in a ponytail and my baby brother's shirt on over a pair of ratty sweats. And yeah, even dressed like that when she looks up at me, my heart flutters. It fucking _flutters_. I cannot stress how much I need to get my shit together. Right now.

I clear my throat and tip my head. "If you wanted another look at me shirtless, you could have just asked."

It's been a long time since I've gone there, and I see the barest hint of shock registering on her face. Good. I lay it on even thicker, putting on a smirk and doing the eye thing for good measure. But then, she nods dismissively, and I can tell she's not buying it.

That's even more irritating than the flutter.

I cross my arms as she moves closer.

"What can I _do_ for you, Elena?" I ask softly, still working it for all the innuendo its worth.

"Damon, don't," she warns me in that low prissy tone I love to hate.

"_Elena_," I say, drawing out her name. "Klaus is dead. Katherine's gone. So…unclench for God's sake. Go to a party. Sing Kumbaya. Snuggle up with your hero boyfriend—

"What is that?" she asks, and I see that her eyes aren't on me anymore. They're on the small leather bag zipped shut on the floor behind me.

Right. Might as well get on with it.

She looks back at me, her cheeks bright and eyes round.

"You're leaving," she whispers. It isn't a question.

I shrug. "The Boogeyman's dead. It's going to be all cotton candy and sliding down rainbows around here. Not really my thing."

"So, you're leaving," she says again, shaking her head. And then, as if she doesn't know. "Why?"

Fine. I'll play along.

"Because, Elena, believe it or not, I don't want to spend the rest of my life going to heritage balls and garden tea parties!" I lean in until I can smell her, and curl my tongue behind my teeth. "Unless of course you're offering something…more interesting."

"Stop it," she says, shaking her head. But she doesn't look revolted. She looks betrayed.

"Stop what?"

She lowers her voice to the barest mutter. "Stop acting like this is about sex. Like _this_ is some game to you."

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

"This?" I say, staying nice and close. I gesture back and forth in the ten inches between us. "Are you talking about _this_, Elena? Because I could have sworn you'd told me there is no _this_. That there will never be _this_. That flying monkeys shooting out of my ass would be more likely than _this_."

"I did! I don't-God, you're impossible!" she hisses, pushing her hair back from her face.

"_I'm_ impossible? What the hell, Elena? What do you want from me?"

She shakes her head again, face pale. The question hangs between us. That _fucking_ question always hangs between us.

If I don't kill something right now, I will literally explode.

And how disturbing is it that I can't kill anyone. Not here, at any rate. I actually have a _moral_ issue with killing any of the people currently in this house. It would feel _wrong_.

So basically, I've turned into Stefan.

I sit down on my bed, deciding how I should kill myself.

The mattress shifts beside me and I turn to see her perched gingerly next to me, her tanned legs pulled up so that her chin is on her knees. And she's looking up at me, giving me one of those glances that cuts through me like a blade. Her eyes go deep. I feel them in places I don't want to remember I still have.

"Let me go, Elena," I say, immediately wishing I hadn't.

She takes a breath and holds it. She wasn't expecting me to say that. Hell, neither was I.

Finally, she releases a little sigh and leans into my shoulder. Whipped piece of shit that I am, I barely manage to not shiver when the ends of her hair stroke my skin. And then her lips are on my neck. The kiss is brief, almost chaste really, but my whole body goes tight.

I lace my fingers through hers, just a little. Holding my ground. Calling her bluff.

Then her breath is shuddering against my ear and I'm picturing ten thousand things I would do with this girl. In this bed, on the floor, on the fucking dresser for that matter.

"I don't know how to let you go," she says.

She gets up to leave and I don't say a thing.

Not a single, damn thing.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Guess what? I own nothing! Whee!

**A/N: Right. You guys? Rock so freaking hard it's not funny. Really. I wish I could send you things. Chocolate or presents or sunshine or something. Because you guys make me want to write. No lie.**

**Which is a really darned good thing, because I had to totally rewrite this chapter. ACK! Yeah, it was…on reread…just WRONG. Mostly because *this* scene wouldn't leave me alone. So I changed it.**

**Warning. I'm not a fan of bashing Stefan, and this is no way an effort to do that. However, I think there's something going on with him in the last few episodes. I wont bore you with the obsessive little details I've picked up, but I did want to mention that this isn't an effort to assassinate Stefan. It's something I think could be plausible, though I know full well the writers would never sully Saint Stefan with such ickyness! Pshaw, they have Damon for that! (grumble grumble)**

**Anyhow…I'm SUPER nervous about it coming across badly…but I have to get it up, because I want it done before the ep tomorrow. Which leaves me…uh…not a lot of time. So if you're really feeling kind…review? Pretty please? It really is the best thing. This one's ELENA'S POV. Back to Damon in part 4**

**And...uh...please don't kill me...it really does get happier.**

**((CHAPTER 3 - ELENA POV))**

I bolt upright in bed, still feeling hungry hands on my thighs and a name that isn't Stefan on my lips.

I push my damp hair back from my forehead and try to ignore the steady throb between my legs. Stefan sits up, but he doesn't ask me about my pounding heart or sweat-drenched shirt. Just like I don't ask him about the growing collection of blood bags in his trash can.

This is what we've become in the aftermath of our great triumph. Funny. I thought killing Klaus was supposed to make everything alright.

I offer a fake smile. Stefan's isn't any better.

"Can't sleep?" he asks.

I shake my head and he nods. This is the best we manage anymore, the polite pretense of a relationship I think we both know is heading for the shore.

And why is that so surprising?

Everything is different now. Our whole universe flipped like a coin. Did I really expect us to stay right where we were a year ago?

"Do you want some water?" I ask, glancing towards the bathroom.

He shakes his head, fingers twitching against the covers. I can tell he's too antsy for small talk. Probably because he's hungry. He's always hungry these days.

I head to the bathroom anyway, brushing my teeth and letting the cold water from the sink run over my wrists. A thin red scar remains from Stefan's first bite. Back then, my blood was plenty. A few crimson drops…it was like an elixir.

Not anymore. Whatever he could take from me wouldn't be enough.

When I return to the bedroom, he's fully dressed, sliding into a pair of sneakers.

"I'm going to run out for a coffee," he says, and my eyes drift to his shaking hands. "Might as well get an early start on the day."

I smile and pretend to believe him.

Just like he pretends I wasn't having a sex dream about his brother.

And then I sit there on the side of the bed listening to him make his way down the stairs. He grabs his keys from the table and then I hear the front door open and close.

I stand up as soon as I hear his engine rumble, darting quickly out of the room and down the dark hallway. I haven't been to this particular section of the boarding house in six days and yeah, I admit it. I've been avoiding this. Avoiding _him_.

I'm poised at the door, hand almost, but not quite on the handle.

Then I remember that I don't have time for this. I am not some fourteen-year-old girl who has the luxury of sitting at home dissecting what that brush of Damon's fingers meant. Or what was really going on in my head when I kissed him, not on the cheek, or the forehead, but right on his neck.

I don't have time to go there, because this isn't about what happened that night. It's about Stefan, who I would bet my left hand is _not_ going out for a cup of _coffee _right now.

I push open the door, surprised to find Damon's light still on. Inside, I manage exactly two steps before I freeze.

He's sprawled out on his stomach, a single white sheet riding across one leg, a book still open beside him. He's out cold though, arms around a pillow, looking for all the world like some misplaced angel.

I clear my throat and Damon's body shifts. I hate myself, God, I really do, but I can't help but to watch him wake up, the play of muscle against skin as he rolls over, the flutter of his dark lashes opening to reveal brilliant blue.

Sometimes I think he's too pretty to be real.

"Let me guess. There's a crisis," he says, voice like gravel-coated velvet. It goes right through my middle to a dark, secret place it definitely doesn't belong.

Before I can respond to that, he's out of bed, stalking towards me in his boxers, that lethal smirk of his even more dangerous on his sleepy face. "What is it? Witchy turned your brother into a frog? Caroline's pregnant with vampire puppies?"

"It's Stefan," I say.

He sighs then, amusement disappearing. "Of course it is."

He's standing right in front of me now and I'm suddenly intensely aware of my skimpy tank top, of the faded cotton shorts riding low on my hips.

"He's drinking human blood," I say.

Damon gives me an odd look. "Um, yeah, but since he's drinking your blood, is this really 3 A.M. newsworthy?"

"He isn't drinking my blood," I say, blushing. "Not for awhile now."

Damon looks at me as if I've announced that the Easter Bunny is waiting downstairs for a hot breakfast. "Why? Did you stop offering?"

"He stopped asking," I say, feeling my cheeks go even hotter.

Damon presses his hands to his eyes with a sigh. "Peachy. I'm sure he's got it _all_ under control. So, I'm guessing Saint Crackhead isn't here?"

"He said he was going out for coffee."

"Yeah, and I'm the Virgin Mary."

"I know," I sigh, still wishing I'd pulled on another shirt. Or that he'd put on some pants. "That's why I'm here, Damon. He's in trouble."

"No, Mystic Falls is in trouble. The place is about to look like the set of a Rob Zombie movie. Stefan can't eat a _parakeet_ without needing a change of clothes."

I cross my arms over my chest and frown. "This isn't funny, Damon. He's your brother and he needs help. How can you just stand there and not react to that?"

Damon's face goes indescribably dark, his smirk thinning into something much colder.

"This _is_ a reaction," he says. "It's just not the one you want. As much as it might kill you to realize this, I'm not here so you can spoon feed me the right thing to do at every fork in the road. Has it ever occurred to you that I might not give a shit about the _right _thing?"

"No, Damon, I _never_ think about that," I say, voice dripping sarcasm. "I never lie awake wondering if any of it is real with you. If any of the good I see is my own stupid imagination."

"Well don't heap all the compliments on at once!"

"I'm not finished!"

We're yelling now, fists clenched at our sides, eyes sparking. God, it's always like this with us. We can't ever stop pushing each other.

I take a steadying breath, forcing myself to use a softer tone. "I do think about it Damon, but at the end of the day I come to the same conclusion every time."

He tips his head. It's as close to asking as he's going to come.

"I know you aren't this person. I know you love Stefan and you will always help him."

He laughs at me then, cold and low and cruel. "I made my peace with my Messiah brother a long time ago," he says. "Yeah, I love him. And I'm sure the hell not going to watch someone take him out. But I'm not sitting around this _shithole_ town to rescue him from whatever Lifetime drama he's gotten himself into this week."

"Then why are you here?" I snap.

"You know _damn_ well why I'm here, Elena."

My words from that night whisper between us. Yes. Yes, I do know why he's here. And it's scaring the shit out of me.

My heart is jack-hammering in my chest because I know where we're standing. In the shadow of the Rubicon. Inches from the place we can never come back from.

"Don't do this now," I say, my voice the barest whisper. "I'm not here for this."

"You're not?" he asks, and he's moving closer, his fingers trailing up my arms, eyes roving every inch of me.

_God, do something! Do something!_

But I don't. I just stand there, spellbound by the play of his hands on my skin.

"Is this really why you're here right now?" he continues, voice now low and husky. "Is your boyfriend the reason I hear you wake up every night, Elena? Is _Stefan_ the reason you're creeping into my bedroom wearing a t-shirt I could read the newspaper through?"

I jerk back, slapping his hands away from my arms. My cheeks are on fire. Of course they're on fire. All we ever do is burn.

"What about you, Damon?" I snarl back. "Is this _really_ your priority right now? Wearing me down so that maybe, just maybe you can finally add me to the notches on your headboard? Is that the goal?"

He steps back then, something unreadable passing over his face.

That look gives me courage. It should give me the brains to shut the hell up, because deep down I know I'm going too far, but I've snapped like a reed and I just don't give a damn anymore.

"I could be anyone, couldn't I?" I say, the words spraying out of me like bullets. "It's about the chase, right? The thrill of the hunt. I could be anyone on this whole planet. It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to you as long as I belonged to Stefan."

And then he's on me again, hands on my face, fingers wide and threading into my hair, his eyes so blue and soft I could fall right into them. I don't realize I'm crying until his thumbs move across my cheeks, catching my tears.

I feel like a monster. And he's looking at me as if I've still got the seal of heaven on my face.

"This isn't about my brother, Elena," he whispers, leaning in until I have to close my eyes because I can't face that truth.

And I can't deny it anymore, either.

His fingers brush down my cheeks, sliding along my jaw. I can feel the longing in that touch. The reverence. It sends an ache through my center, and it's all I can do to not whimper. Especially when he lets me go.


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Don't own a thing. Trust me if I had *any* control Season 2 would be a very different place.

**A/N: Well, this is it, folks. I'm actually a little sad to see this one end. This one really got to me. I don't know exactly why – it just hit me hard in the best way.**

**It is the happy ending I promised, and yeah, there's a teeny little sliver that's almost fluffy. But the truth is, that's one of the things about Damon and Elena that thrills me the most. They are so intense – so brutal and honest and gritty – but then there are these moments – like the sixties dance between them - where there is so much joy and playfulness. When I think of Damon and Elena together, I think of loads of fights, and lots of laughter.**

**I really hope this doesn't disappoint. I'm still trying to reply to all the reviews, because they are the reason I post. They are the reason I finish these stories and try to get them in decent enough shape to share. To all of you who take the time to leave a note – thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is your generosity that keeps me coming back every single time. I am deeply humbled and grateful.**

**So on that note…please review! I will dearly try to get back to you all.**

((CHAPTER 4 - DAMON POV))

I should be in Cancun by now. Drinking something out of a coconut. Or maybe someone in a coconut bra.

Instead I'm busy chucking a bucket of cow blood into Stefan's cell. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to buy cow's blood? _In Virginia?_

He doesn't wake up this time, no doubt thanks to the killer cocktail of elephant tranquilizers I nailed him with this morning. A better brother would have talked him through it, let him blather on ad nauseam about how sorry he is or how he doesn't deserve to live. But frankly, after spending two days cleaning blood out of carpets and compelling half of Mystic Falls, I don't give a shit about Stefan's achy breaky heart.

I'm not even sure Elena cares at this point. Hell, that's not true. Elena would care about a cockroach if it looked pitiful enough, so of course she cares about her boyfriend.

_Ex_-boyfriend, actually.

Yeah, well, I'm not expecting Breakup version 3.0 to last any longer than the previous attempts.

I overheard their last break-up, too, and that one sounded a hell of a lot more convincing. This one was all cool and logical. All I'm-here-for-you-forever-but-we-both-know-things-have-changed. Last time there was sniffling and cracked voices and all that shit. Hell, that last time I found _myself_ in tears wondering if there wasn't some way to fix the tragedy of it all.

I wouldn't have gotten my panties in such a knot back then if I'd realized they'd be back together by dinnertime.

Which is why I'm not fucking holding my breath now.

I close every door behind me on my way upstairs, turning on the stereo for good measure. I slept like shit last night and I'd really like a few hours where I don't have to listen to my resident meth-head moaning and groaning.

I pause at the door to my room, because there's a girl on my bed.

Well, not _a_ girl.

_The_ girl.

Elena's cross-legged and staring at her hands in her lap. She's really getting to be a ballsy little shit. If she keeps showing up around my bed, I'm going to remind her what it's used for.

"Don't mind me. Just make yourself comfortable," I say, and she looks up at me.

But she doesn't say anything. Just holds my eyes in that irresistible way of hers. She really needs to patent that look and sell it at the state fair. Because, personally, I'm _over_ it.

I mean, enough already. All the tension and the silence and the long, searching looks that go abso-fucking-lutely _nowhere_. I'm just too fucking tired for this anymore.

"Do you need something, Elena?" I ask, and she stands up.

I can see her weighing something in her mind. Her brows are puckered and her lips are pursed. She looks cute like this, but then, I'd probably think she looked adorable eating a dead squirrel she found on the side of the road.

She licks her lips and my stomach goes tight with something that I wouldn't call _cute_. The girl is my Achilles heel. All dark eyes, smooth skin, and good soul. And even as I'm telling myself to stand the fuck still, I start moving towards her.

She spooks her like a deer on the side of the road. Her face closes off and then she's rushing to get past me.

No, I don't think so. Not this time.

I grab her arm, because I'm _done_ with this back and forth. Maybe she is, too, because she doesn't try again. She just looks back up at me. I can see four million fucking things going on in that pretty face and before I can interpret a single damn one of them, she grabs my face.

Just grabs me, hard, and pulls me down. And then, just like that, she's kissing me.

I process this for all of a nanosecond before I haul her in, molding every inch of her against me while I get my first taste of her. Fucking hell, she's sweet. Sweet and hot and kissing me like her damn life depends on every stroke of my tongue.

Hell, maybe that's true.

God knows mine does.

Either way, I've waited a lifetime for this moment. _Several_ lifetimes. So yeah, my knees are buckling and my hands are shaking as they slide up the length of her spine. And I don't give a shit. All I care about now is feeling her arms wrapping around my neck, her lips pushing and pulling against me. I just want more of it. I want to spend a _month_ kissing her, testing the curve of her waist, drinking in every little moan that slips out of her mouth and into mine.

Then it's over. She's backing away like I've turned green and grown horns, hand over her mouth. And I see the one thing that scares me the most in her eyes.

Regret.

"Elena," I say, but she bolts.

Yeah, she'd better run.

This bullshit's going to end. Today.

She's faster than I gave her credit for. Her car's zipping down the drive by the time I hit the front door. I let her run. I'm pretty sure I know where she's going.

She wouldn't go home. Too obvious. Plus, Jeremy will ask questions and she'll have to act normal and after that kiss, I'm betting she won't be able to breathe right, let alone hold a rational conversation.

At any rate, this has been her safe place for a long time. The one place in her life that really doesn't have anything to do with Stefan or me. This is hers and hers alone.

I wait behind her car at the cemetery. The first time I saw her, really saw her, was here, leaned back against her parents' tombstone. It was the first time in Mystic Falls that I'd thought about something other than Katherine. For one split second, as she scratched away in her journal, I thought about my own mom. I remembered the small, winged cherub perched on her grave and the azalea that I planted beside it when I was nine.

I should have known then that Elena would change everything for me.

I lean against the tree by her car, until I hear her footsteps. I see her long before she sees me, and I see the slim flower in her hands, one she did not leave for her parents. It's a daisy. And fuck me standing if she's not plucking off the petals one by one in that age old he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not routine.

"You really need a flower to help you figure this out?" I ask by way of greeting.

She looks up, dropping the remnants. Her face is tense, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

"You know I love you," I admit, the truth burning my tongue like a log straight from the fire. "More than I thought I could. And a hell of a lot more than I should."

Ugh, listen to this. I sound like I should be wearing sandals and playing guitar in a coffee shop.

She doesn't say anything, but she tilts her head away a little, as if she can't quite look at me straight on after that. And maybe that's because she wants to hear it, or maybe it's because she wants to act like she didn't hear me. So we can go back to the world where we both pretend there is nothing going on here.

I'm sick to fucking death of that world.

_Then purge, already, Dickless._

I brace myself and step closer. "Look, I'm going to make this as simple and painless as possible because to be straight with you, I've had it up to my eyebrows with the fucking drama. One way or another, we're getting this out. Right now."

"Alright," she says softly, and maybe I'm crazy, but I think she means it. Her eyes are clear.

For the first time in forever, mine are too.

"I'd be a shit choice for anyone, least of all you," I blurt out.

Maybe not the greatest start, but it's something.

"I'm not the good guy, Elena," I continue. "I'm not a hero. I will fuck up, I will lose my temper. I will make decisions you _hate_. I have and I will and there isn't a pep talk on this planet that's going to change it. I'm not _him_. I'll never be him."

She blinks up at me, her face betraying nothing.

So I go on, spewing out all this sentimental bullshit I'll probably in thirty seconds. "But I'm crazy in love with you, Elena. I can't change it. I can't leave. God knows I've tried to do both, but it never works."

Her cheeks bear the slightest pink stain, but nothing else. I shrug my shoulders. "I know it's pointless and hopeless. Hell, it's damn near killed me a dozen times, but none of that matters, because you are _it_ for me."

The breeze picks up her hair and I watch it, trying to wait her out. I figure she has to say something.

I figure wrong.

Irritation flares through me. Apparently, I don't even need Bonnie for an aneurism. Just leave me with Elena Gilbert for fifteen minutes. Kablam!

"Did you even hear a word that I just said?" I ask very quietly.

"I heard you," she says, just as softly and with absolutely no inflection. No feeling whatsoever.

My head is going to explode. I'm not even fucking kidding, I can feel it happening – blood rushing – arteries bursting - any minute now I'm going to erupt.

"Well then," I grit out. "I'm _real_ fucking glad I chased you down here. Now you can go home and add my name to the list of fucked-in-the-head assholes in the Elena-Gilbert-is-the-One fan club!"

"This isn't easy for me, Damon."

I throw up my hands at her. "You're right, Elena. I'm sure it's just hell for you being loved by someone like _me_."

She shakes her head, sending tears down her cheeks. "You're wrong. You're stupid. God, you have no idea!"

"I have no idea what?"

"What it's like to be loved by you! Can you imagine what it's like to know someone loves you like this? So much that it makes you feel weak and powerful at the same time. So much that it makes your bones _hurt_."

I hold my breath, afraid to think anything. Afraid to move. It's like seeing a butterfly emerge. Everything is fragile and breaking. One thing is dying. I feel the inevitability of it. And I'm poised here waiting to see if these fragile wings will beat – if this new thing will fly.

I take a step closer to her. It feels like crossing hallowed ground.

She swipes at her tears and squares her shoulders before going on. "You and me, Damon? Yeah, I feel it. I feel it _every_ minute of every day. And it scares me to death."

_You and me. _That's the part I focus on. Hell, being scared to death happens every other Tuesday around here. The 'You and me' bit? That's new.

But before I do or say _anything_, she's reaching for me, her pretty, soft hand, brushing the inside of my wrist, fingers interlacing until our palms pull together. And fuck me if it's not the 1860's all over again. I swear, the feel of her hand against mine, it makes things inside me do cartwheels. All because she _held my hand_. I can't even make this shit up, it's that bad.

"What if it doesn't work?" she asks in a tiny voice.

"What if it does?" I ask, and my voice is just as small.

"What if I hurt you?"

I wince at the reminder. "Been there. Done that."

"What if _you_ hurt _me_?"

"We've both got that t-shirt, too," I say, and the shadow of Jeremy's body slumping to the ground plays through my memory.

Then her face changes, sadness pinching every feature. "What about Stefan, Damon?"

"I don't want that t-shirt," I say, feeling my eyes flash.

She rolls her eyes, but inches closer to me nonetheless. "That's not what I mean. I mean, what if he can't handle it?"

"I guess we'll just have to kill him," I scoff.

She tilts her head, giving me that reproachful look with a prim little shake of her head. And being the masochist that I am, I eat it up, because I _love_ that look. Then, I love damn near everything about this girl.

"Damon," she says, dragging out my name like the scolding it is.

"Elena," I say, in the same sing-song fashion. But then I take her other hand, and I'm not smirking anymore. Because I need to be sure. For once in my sorry ass life, I need to hear it.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you really choosing this? Us?"

She purses her lips then, tilting her head like she's mulling it over. But when I cup her face and pull her in, her face lights up.

It's like gazing into the damn sun, she is _that_ warm and that open. I've spent months dreaming about what it would feel like to have her look at me like this. And every one of those fantasies paled against this moment.

I don't need her to tell me anything now. Her eyes are saying _everything_.

"Nevermind," I breathe, leaning down to kiss her.

Just before our lips brush, I see her smile. The ornery one that shows she's getting away with something. "You're not going to make me answer you?"

"You already did."

- End


End file.
